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  I unlocked my room and closed the door behind me. I wouldn’t tell him that the last person I heard screaming and moaning in a hotel room turned up dead the next morning.

  But that wouldn’t happen again…I hoped.

  The Shelbourne was a grand old hotel, and I’d snagged one of the plum rooms that overlooked St. Stephen’s Green. As I scrubbed mascara from my face in the shower, I pondered our incredible good luck at staying here for even one night. Months earlier, the Vacations agent had informed me that because of the great rates they’d negotiated at a castle in the northern part of the republic, we could afford to splurge on one night in Dublin. I didn’t know about anyone else’s accommodations, but I was certainly thrilled with the choice. My room was spacious, the mattress firm, the decor elegant. If I swore off food for the rest of the trip, I might even be able to afford one of the liquor miniatures kept under lock and key in the minibar.

  I turbaned my hair in a towel and was searching for my mousse when I heard a BANG! BANG! BANG! on my door. Great. The interruptions were starting already. I knew that’s what I was being paid to deal with, but couldn’t my Iowans at least wait until I had some clothes on?

  Tightening the belt of my bathrobe, I marched across the floor and then took a long look through the peephole. I threw the door open. “What can I do for you, Bernice?”

  “You gotta do something.” She barreled into my room like a runaway freight train, then pulled up short, looking around. “Nice place. Guess it pays to be on the bank’s payroll. What would I have to do to get a room like this?”

  Acid rose in my stomach at her implication that I was receiving favored status, but I was a professional. I wouldn’t remind her that on our last trip, one of the rooms I occupied didn’t even have windows. “Rooms are assigned at random, Bernice. Maybe you’ll get the room with the view at the castle.”

  “Who would I have to sleep with to get an upgrade? Oh, never mind. Can’t use sex as a bargaining chip anymore. In my day we agreed to have sex when we wanted something. You have sex because you enjoy it. Your generation has really screwed up the balance of power for the rest of us. So here’s my problem. All my money’s missing.”

  “You were robbed? Oh, my God! When did it happen? Are you all right? Did you get a good look at the thief’s face? Did he take your credit cards too? Tell me exactly what happened.” I ran to the desk for pen and paper. I’d been trained for this. I knew exactly what to do in cases of burglary, robbery, and purse-snatching. You find out all the vital information, then you call the front desk and dump it in their laps. “Tell me when the incident occurred.”

  “Yesterday.”

  I held my pen in suspended motion above the paper. “But we weren’t here yesterday. You mean, it happened at O’Hare?”

  “Before that.”

  “How much before?”

  “At my house.”

  “You were robbed at your house in Windsor City?” This was big news, since the only crime recorded in Windsor City over the past ten years was when Luther Ellis was ticketed for jaywalking. My boss getting sent upriver for fraud didn’t count because he lived in Des Moines.

  “I didn’t get robbed,” Bernice whined. “You’re such an alarmist. My traveler’s checks were in the drawer of my nightstand and I walked out of the house without them. I knew I was forgetting something, but when it didn’t turn out to be my bloomers or my teeth, I stopped worrying.”

  “Did you read the leaflet I sent out from the bank? I said you should keep all your travel documents together. I said you should make a list so you wouldn’t forget anything. Did you make a list?”

  “Of course I made a list. I wrote ‘Buy traveler’s checks.’ So I bought the traveler’s checks. I just forgot to bring them with me.”

  My leaflet obviously needed major refinement. “Did you at least bring a credit card with you?”

  “Don’t own a credit card. Don’t believe in them. I pay cash on the barrel. So I’m gonna have to borrow some cash from you.”

  Section 5 of the Escort’s Manual played back in my head. Never, ever lend money to guests. Statistics prove you’ll never get it back. But what was the alternative? Bernice was a certified pain in the neck, but I couldn’t let her starve.

  I grabbed my shoulder bag and pulled out my wallet. “You’ll need to call Mr. Erickson at the bank and have him wire some money to you at our next stop. I only converted a hundred American dollars into Irish punts at the airport, so I don’t have a lot of cash, but this should see you through dinner tonight and lunch tomorrow.” I handed her three bills of varying size, each stamped with a head shot of a different dignitary—a nun, a man wearing Harry Potter glasses, and a guy with a giant balloon head the color of Bazooka bubble gum.

  She stared at the bills. “That’s only thirty-five pounds. I need more. We’re in the shopping district.” She eyed my remaining note—the one with a blue-headed man sporting an out-of-control mustache.

  “I guess you’ll just have to exercise a little restraint until your money arrives, Bernice.”

  “I got grandkids. Restraint won’t cut it.”

  Grandkids. I understood grandkids. I wasn’t Ebenezer Scrooge. “Okay. I’ll give you the guy with the blue head and you can give me back the other three.”

  She plucked the fifty from my hand and shoved the bill with the balloon-headed man at me. “That should be enough to cover your dinner. My grandkids will be real beholden to you, Emily.”

  I noted the denomination of the bill. A twenty. “Wait a minute, Bernice…”

  She was in full retreat toward the door. “I saw one of those automatic bank machines right around the corner from here. I hear you can get all the money you want from those things for just a minimal fee. And they’re open all the time. I’ll probably need another small loan tomorrow morning. Before the bus leaves would be nice. And I’d prefer small bills. Thanks, Emily.”

  I stared openmouthed at the door. That woman! I was going to strangle her! How come she couldn’t be thoughtful, and polite, and unassuming like the other ladies in the group? How come she always tried to take unfair advantage of every situation? Nana always said there was one in every crowd, and Bernice was certainly the one in ours. UNNNH!

  I returned to the bathroom sputtering to myself. I’d have to find an ATM so I could eat lunch tomorrow. Could I handle a financial crisis or what? I’m surprised Alan Greenspan wasn’t knocking down my door in search of fiscal advice.

  I continued the search for my mousse. Knock! Knock! Knock! I stuck my head out of the bathroom and glared at the door. Too soon to be Alan Greenspan. Had to be Bernice. She’d probably come back for my 401K.

  I stormed across the room and flung open the door. “WHAT?”

  He was leaning against the doorjamb, all whipcord muscle and elegance, dressed in a black silk turtleneck and black pleated Italian pants. His hair was gloss black. His eyes were smoke blue and sultry. He gave me a lazy look up and down, then broke into a slow smile as he eyed my waist. My mouth dropped open in surprise as he hooked his forefinger through my belt loop and drew me against him. “Hello, darling,” he whispered in his French/German/Italian accent. “I’ve missed you.”

  “Etienne? Oh, my God. Etienne! What are you doing here? You said you were working on a big case. You said you couldn’t get away. You said—”

  “I lied.” He covered my lips with his mouth. In one lightning move he spun me around, kicked the door shut, and pressed me against the wall. His tongue entwined with mine. He wedged his knee between my thighs, parted my robe, and braced his hands on my bare hips. This is what I loved about Etienne. He really knew how to get my attention.

  “I want to make love to you, Emily. Now.”

  I’d been thinking about taking in the brilliant high tea in the Lord Mayor’s Lounge at half-three, but I liked this offer better.

  “Okay.” I don’t believe in being coy or playing hard to get. When I fall in love with a man, I like to show it.

  I yanked his
turtleneck out of his pants, glided my palms up his naked spine, and sucked his tongue halfway down my throat.

  Tap tap tap. The door. Again.

  I hadn’t had sex since my annulment. I wasn’t hearing anything. I dropped my hands to his waist and fumbled with his belt.

  “Are you going to get that?” Etienne rasped.

  “Get what?” I unhooked his belt and probed for the metal pull tab of his zipper.

  “The door. Someone’s knocking.”

  “I don’t hear a thing.” No pull tab. He had a button fly. Unnnh! I grabbed his fly front with both hands and wrenched it apart. Ping! Ping! Ping! Buttons flew in every direction.

  Etienne stopped breathing. “Emily, darling, these are new trousers.”

  “Not to worry. I have my sewing kit with me.” And, it just so happened, I’d brought Velcro.

  Tap tap tap.

  Etienne looked at the door. He looked at me. His police inspector’s expression reshaped his features. So much for the romantic mood. “It could be important,” he said.

  Getting laid was important too. Especially after the drought I’d had. WHY were the Swiss so practical? “If it’s Bernice Zwerg, I’m not answering it.”

  We shuffled toward the door in tandem. Etienne squinted through the peephole. “It’s an elderly gentleman.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “Short and bald.”

  “That’s no help.” I was with a group of seniors. They were all short and bald. “Can you be more specific?”

  “Very short. Very bald.”

  Okay. If I could get rid of whoever it was, Etienne and I could recapture the mood and get down to some serious sex. Could I think on my feet, or what?

  I slithered out of Etienne’s embrace, motioned him to an alcove of the room where he would be out of sight, and readjusted my bathrobe. I cracked the door an inch and peeked out. George Farkas, dressed in a tartan plaid shirt and chinos, bobbed his head in my direction and peeked in.

  George had lost his leg to a Nazi land mine in ’44, his hair to a tropical infection in ’55, and his wife to another man in ’66. He never replaced the hair or the wife, but he bought a dandy new prosthetic leg a few years ago that set him back twenty thousand dollars. Probably a bargain considering how much a new wife might cost him in Medicare A and B payments alone.

  I opened the door wider. “George? What can I do for you?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Emily, but I got a problem.”

  Uh-oh. The last time he had a problem, I’d had to fish his artificial leg out of Lake Lucerne while on the upper deck of a tour boat. George might have saved Europe’s butt by rescuing it from Nazi oppression in ’44, but I’d saved George’s butt by preventing his prosthesis from becoming fish bait in ’99.

  “What kind of problem?” I prayed it had nothing to do with male sexual dysfunction.

  “I left my traveling alarm clock at home. Do you have one you could lend me? There’s a clock radio in my room, but I can’t figure out how to set the alarm. Don’t want to screw up and be late for the bus tomorrow.”

  Iowans are never late. Ever. It’s part of their genetic code. If medical science could isolate the gene and reproduce it in drug form, we could probably eliminate tardiness altogether. “You wait right there, George. I think I might be able to help you.”

  I raced across the floor, gave a thumbs-up to Etienne, and riffled through my suitcase. Aha! I raced back to George and handed him the clock. “I packed an extra. I just installed a new battery in this one and it has big numbers so you don’t have to squint to see the time.”

  “Don’t need to squint since my cataract surgery. I can probably see better than you. It’s because of the lens implants.” He pointed to a spot near my feet. “There’s buttons all over your carpet, Emily. You should pick ’em up before you slip.”

  “I’ll do that. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you, George.” Am I good or what? Even in the throes of pre-orgasmic distress, I can be helpful and courteous. I placed my hand on the door to close it.

  “Wait a minute!” I heard Jackie call from down the hall. “I need an opinion.”

  Uh-oh. I’d forgotten about Jack. My breath caught somewhere in my chest as I considered this unexpected dynamic. Jack was on the tour. Etienne was on the tour. At some point in time, I’d probably have to introduce the man I love to the woman who used to be the man I loved. Oh, this was nice. Maybe leaping out the window from four stories up would be enough to kill me. Or at least keep me in a vegetative state until the tour was over.

  “I want you to give me an honest opinion,” she said as she held two garments in the air. “Which do you think for my wedding night? The sheer black babydoll with the pink satin trim and matching georgette thong, or the white chiffon with the flocked velvet vine pattern and the slit up to my navel? You’re a man,” she said to George, reading his name tag. “Which one do you like, George?”

  The fact that Jackie was having this conversation dressed in a leopard skin bra, string panty, and nothing else might have had some bearing on George’s inability to respond immediately. It’s hard for an old guy to be articulate when he’s collapsed against the wall and hyperventilating.

  “Is he going to be all right?” Jackie asked. “Look how red his face is. Should he be breathing into a paper bag? I wish I could help out, but I don’t have any paper products with me. All I have is plastic, and I’m pretty sure plastic would suffocate him. Maybe we should try giving him an aspirin.”

  “Maybe you should try roaming the hall in something other than your skivvies.” What was wrong with her? Well, other than the fact that she’d lost all spatial intelligence and no longer sported body hair. I stepped into the hall and slapped George on the back. He pounded his chest, then waved his hand toward Jackie. “The black babydoll,” he gasped out, the words barely audible. “I like that see-through stuff.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. For a wedding night I prefer the white chiffon. It seems a little more…you know…sacrificial.”

  “The black,” George countered. “And if you don’t mind my saying so, young lady, your husband is one lucky man. How come all the good ones are already taken?”

  “Why you sweet man,” Jackie gushed. “I might have to march over there and give you a great big kiss right on top of your little bald head.”

  Not a good idea. He’d gone tachycardic just looking at her. I suspected body contact might kill him.

  “Emily, honey!” called Ashley Overlock from the far end of the corridor. “Stay right there! I have things to give you.”

  Aargh! What was with these people and all the interruptions? I might have pulled out all my hair if it hadn’t been wrapped in a towel. My heart started to pound. Prickly warmth crawled up my neck. I watched Ashley approach in her supermodel mode, blond hair spilling over her shoulders, all confidence and efficiency. “What kinds of things?” I asked as she joined us.

  “Maps. Time schedules. A more detailed itinerary of the trip. Guests like to know where they’re all going and what time they have to leave. If you’d hand these out to the Iowa people, you’d save me a whole bunch of time.” She emptied the stack of folders into my arms. “I’ve written names and room numbers on each folder. No hurry about delivering them. After you dry your hair will be fine.”

  Etienne and I had engaged in brief sessions of cybersex over the past few months, but I figured the real thing would take a lot longer, so I needed to buy some time. “I usually let my hair air-dry.”

  “So you can deliver them while your hair is drying, sugar. That’s even better.”

  Jackie waved her two wedding night selections in the air again. “I’m taking a survey,” she said to Ashley. “Which one would you wear on the first night of your honeymoon?”

  Ashley gave her one of those narrow looks women give each other when they discover the competition has thinner thighs, better makeup, and deeper cleavage. “You’re on the tour, aren’t you?”


  “I certainly am. Jackie Thum. I introduced myself to you at the airport.”

  “Sugar, where do you think you are? Hollywood and Vine? Y’all can’t run around the Shelbourne in your underwear. It’s not that kind of place. You want to get us all kicked out? For God’s sake, throw some clothes on and keep them on. And to answer your question, I wouldn’t be caught dead in either one of those getups. They have to be the poorest example of taste and style I ever did see.”

  Jackie’s face froze with the unkindness. I guess she had to learn sometime. Women fall into two categories. The first category say mean things to your face and smile about it behind your back. The second category say mean things behind your back but smile to your face. Ashley, apparently, fell into category number one.